When I'm feeling like I'm caving into suburban housewifery, I tend to turn up the volume on semi-subversive music while I'm engaging in traditional chores. My rationale seems to be that it's okay to vacuum or dust or cook dinner for my family as long as I am also listening to, say, The Pixies at top volume because my mom wouldn't have done that. The Pixies prevent me from ceding my last shred of feminist dignity by declaring me quirky and modern and not a traditional housewife. No, I'm not turning into my mother. No, sir. Last night, while cooking dinner, I was too lazy to dig through the CD collection, so I just turned on the radio and started my usual dance routine. Somewhere in my head I always imagine I look like the fusion of Suzanne Farrell and some theatrical Japanese chef, with a dose of techno hipness thrown in. In reality, I'm fairly certain I'm just embarrassing my progeny. During last night's groove, I suddenly became aware of what I was listening to -- is it, could it be, The Stones?

And there the fantasy ended. Mick Jagger is two years older than my mother. My mother could have, might have, and probably did listen to this while cooking dinner.

So it's true. You can't help turning into your mother. Next week I'll attemt dusting while wearing an ANARCHY T-shirt. I'll let you know how that goes.

* * * * *

We decided against a return visit to the circus when AJ sounded less than enthused about the venture. Instead I went to yoga where I did assorted warrior poses until my legs began to shake and then stood on my head. Yes, I pay people to help me do this. Go figure.

When I got home from yoga, I was surprised to find AJ standing barefooted in the driveway clutching his blankie. He's usually in bed when I get home, but it was the first nice evening in ages and he and his dad had played some extra innings of baseball in the yard earlier in the evening and they were running late. "I was just about to go to bed when I saw you out the window, Mommy!" He looked so excited to see me. We went inside and started to get ready for bed when my husband came in. "I know it's late, but he doesn't have camp tomorrow and he asked really nicely if he could catch fireflies." I looked at AJ who nodded hopefully. "Well," I said, "we'd better get going. There aren't that many more good firefly days left." AJ and I ran to look for a jar and finally settled on an empty Gatorade bottle. We carefully peeled the label off to maximize the viewing area, and headed out the side door.

There is very little better to watch than a small, barefooted boy tearing around a twilit yard grasping at the little flashes of light hovering over the lawn. He had trouble at first. I caught the first two, then his dad caught one. AJ caught one himself, but dropped it as we tried to transfer it to the jar. Finally, AJ convinced one into landing on his hand. He watched it for a moment and then we successfully transferred it to the bottle and sat down to watch the four little fireflies inside flash on and off. After a while, we went back outside and shook the flies out of the bottle.

AJ took one more lap around the lawn and came inside, pink-cheeked and panting. He leaned on my shoulder as I picked blades of grass from between his wet toes. "Mommy, I caught my very first firefly!" he breathed into my ear with all the excitement and pride of one who had just won a Nobel prize.

A few minutes later, he was tucked into bed and we were reading Eric Carle's The Lonely Firefly. Our copy of the book has been read so many times that the batteries have worn down and the fireflies on the last page no longer flicker on and off. "That's okay," said AJ. "If I close my eyes, I can just see the lights in my mind."

"How many fireflies do you see?"

"Fifty or a thousand or a hundred."

"Why don't you count them?"

"One, two, three..."

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